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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29581533">Anger / Fear / Love</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/tangerinecakes/pseuds/tangerinecakes'>tangerinecakes</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dragon Age - All Media Types, Original Work, Wolfsbane - Fandom - Fandom</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Declarations Of Love, Fear, Feelings, Love, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 00:01:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,430</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29581533</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/tangerinecakes/pseuds/tangerinecakes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Three little pieces about three enormous emotions.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bastian Mair/Elias Falco</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Anger / Fear / Love</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Anger</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Drip, drip, drip.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Deep carmine rivulets run down along cheeks covered in a rough stubble, weaving along the hairs and dripping down from the tip of the angular chin as well as the tip of the nose sprinkled with freckles under all the red. The drops fall and splash into the ground, wet not of water but of more of the same, sticking to the bottoms of his boots as a thick, black sludge.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The red is everywhere. On his face, sticky in his black, wavy hair, staining the fabric and leather of his clothes and armour. It is all over his hands and arms, and it coats the blade he is gripping so tight between his palms that his knuckles are white. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>One boot scrapes backwards, offering a more prepared stance for the hunched figure. The tip of the sword is pointing at the ground, sinking a little to the mud, seemingly given up on aggression despite the threatening scowl on his face and the bloodthirsty fire in his eyes. His breath is rough and laboured, running ragged from the exertion and yelling.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Drip, drip, drip.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And around him, sprawled in the bloody ground, lay bodies; cut, pierced, slashed enough that life has fled all of them, soaking the ground. Men and women in metal plating adorned with flaming swords, full helmets concealing their identities. Not that he really wants to know who they were; once he wanted to be one of them, but all that feels like it was forever ago.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When it is clear they are no longer moving, the red haze finally starts to dissipate from his eyes. The man sways on his feet, collapsing on one knee to grasp his side. One of the attackers had managed to get through his defenses and had slid his blade through the seams of his leather armour, and the consequences of that were now bleeding down his side.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn’t matter, though, not in the slightest. Dropping his sword he pushes himself back to his feet and turns, hurrying back to the large boulder some meters away. There, in a crumpled little heap lies the white-haired mage, and Bastian drops to his knees next to him, reaching out to touch him.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Elias, mon cœur, please talk to me”, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he frantically murmurs, gently shaking the man until he stirs and groans, holding his head. He had hit it against the boulder when one of the templars pushed him, and that was when Bastian had lost it. There had been nothing but the red, the steel, and the unbearable need to </span>
  <em>
    <span>kill </span>
  </em>
  <span>all of them, kill anyone who comes after his Eli.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he had. They were dead, all of them. At least the ones that had come now, but there were sure to be more… And the two men couldn’t stay here and wait.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Okay, okay, get up, we need to go”</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he speaks with deep and encouraging words and helps the mage up, letting the shorter man lean on him. Never mind that he is bleeding and will need to stitch that up soon, but… Not yet. Not here. Bastian wraps his arm around Elias’ waist and  grabs his sword, casting one more glance around them, swallowing hard before urging his partner forward and away from there.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Never, ever lose your temper, Bastian, for the destruction you can wreak around you is much too great a price to pay.</span>
  </em>
</p><hr/><p>
  <b>Fear </b>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You have to choose.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The words are cold, and they are harsh. There is no room for arguments or pleas, only the weight pulling on both of his hands. The other is a familiar weight, the worn wrapping against his palm something he has felt countless times before. Bastian looks down at his sword, the same one he had brought with him from Cumberland. It’s scraped and dented after seeing years of use, but it’s a balanced weapon, familiar to the point of it feeling like an extension of his arm. It had always felt good to hold it, up until this moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is nothing familiar with what is in his other hand. It is as if the object was pure fire, burning his hand to the point of smoke rising from between his curled fingers. It is a metal rod, slender and dark, crafted with unmistakable skill. Bastian’s eyes follow it away from his hand, all the way down to the end, and his sinks like a boulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A sunburst, glowing white-hot from the fire it had just been pulled out of.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Choose.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The word rings high-pitched in his ears now. Relentless and merciless, blind to the horror that is gripping Bastian’s heart. Horror, that only turns crueler when he looks up and meets the eyes staring back at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blue, like the Waking Sea on a sunlit day. Blue, like the sky on that day they sat atop that hill and Bastian had dropped down on one knee. They are just as blue now, but filled with a fear Bastian had not ever seen in them, and suddenly he can’t breathe, almost as if his lungs were filled with smoke. He wants nothing more than to run his hands through those white curls of hair, kiss away the streaks of tears on his beloved’s cheeks. But he can’t, he’s not allowed to, and all he can do is stare down at the kneeling, crying mage at his feet. The more he tries to move the tighter his hands grip the weapons in them, and the more desperate Elias’ tears become. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Please, Bastian, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he is pleading, and Bastian’s heart shatters inside his chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You have to choose. Now.” </span>
  </em>
</p><hr/><p>
  <strong>Love</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>So fragile.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a thought that often comes to Bastian’s mind as he watches Elias sleep beside him. Especially after a day of being on the move, after the mage has had to expend so much of his energy to weave his spells. After those kinds of days Elias always sleeps so deep, weary and drained, and Bastian remains awake, unable to fall asleep out of concern and care.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>These sleepless nights Bastian simply listens to Elias breathing, allows his mind to focus on the feeling of the warm body beside him. The slowly rising chest, close enough for the mage's heartbeat to resonate through it. One leg thrown over Bastian's hips, knee pressing against his hip bone and heel hooked over his thigh. Elias often sleeps like this, curled tight against Bastian's side, the tickle of his white hair under Bastian's chin a familiar, welcomed thing. Like so often the Nevarran nuzzles his nose amongst those strands and breathes in the familiar scent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maker, he never grows tired of it, how Elias smells a little like a storm, charged to the brim with lightning ready to strike out. A little bit of smoke from the fire outside, and leather, from all those moments the mage had clung close to his warrior. No matter how the tense moments of the days were, it was the things revolving around Elias that Bastian remembers with the most clarity; like calm breaths amongst the chaos there are blue eyes looking up at him, the smile Bastian so adores, countless kisses, fingers entwined with his own. Always in his memories there is Elias, a warm fire inside his chest, never wavering or showing signs of fading.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bastian presses his lips on the top of his lover’s head, closing his eyes. It’s nearly painful, the ache in his heart. Sometimes Bastian thinks it will consume him, and it fills him with joy for there would be no other way he would prefer to die than out of the intensity of his feelings. Gently he takes Eli’s hand in his own, slowly bringing it to his mouth, kissing the tip of each finger with featherlike lips. He loves these fingers so; the way they caress him fondly when he is in pain; how they dig into his back with each movement of his hips; how they weave fire as if from nothingness; the way they grip his hair when Elias </span>
  <em>
    <span>needs </span>
  </em>
  <span>him. Bastian kisses them again and slides the palm on his cheek, pulling the mage closer to himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Elias murmurs something in his sleep and nuzzles his face against Bastian’s shoulder, and Bastian’s heart shudders. He wishes to always be able to hold the mage like this, to always be able to look at him, to kiss him, to--</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Je t’aime, Elias”, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he breathes, silently, into the cloud of white hair, the Orlesian rolling off his tongue smooth and melodic.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Toujours.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
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